


Flight

by Overdressedtokill (SkyeStan)



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-22
Updated: 2013-12-22
Packaged: 2018-01-05 11:21:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1093305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SkyeStan/pseuds/Overdressedtokill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which shirts are lifted, sides are poked, and Skye is still unable to decide why she got a tattoo to begin with.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Flight

“And before we screen this,” Simmons asks, pulling the needle from Skye’s arm and pressing a wad of gauze over the tiny hole, “I just need to ask a couple basic questions.  Nothing too invasive.”  Skye snickers at the irony of the statement.  Simmons quickly slips the vial of blood into the centrifuge, then picks up her tidy little clipboard and spins back to Skye, ponytail swishing behind her.  She clicks her pen and looks up from her clipboard, smiling brightly.

“Do you smoke?” she asks, and Skye tilts her head, giving a wry grin.

“We’re literally on the same plane,” Skye says.  Simmons pulls her mouth into an indignant pout.

“I meant before SHIELD, Skye,” Simmons says.  “Do you know what May would do if she caught anyone smoking up here?”

“I don’t want to think about that,” Skye replies, letting a shudder pass through her shoulders.  She takes another moment to muse over the question.  “Smoking.  A little.  From like, fifteen to seventeen.”

“How’d you quit?” Simmons asks, and Skye isn’t entirely sure if it’s out of genuine curiosity or if it’s on the questionnaire.

“I ran out of money to buy cigarettes?” Skye offers.  It’s a half truth, but Simmons doesn’t know this and doesn’t need to.  She nods quickly enough at Skye’s reply, making a note in the margin.

“Do you drink?” Simmons asks, and then chuckles to herself.  “I’m just going to put ‘yes’ down for you.” 

“Good call,” Skye says.

“Are you sexually active?” Simmons asks, then blushes, then looks down at her clipboard, and then back up, wide eyed.

“Not since Miles,” Skye says, “unless, like, mastur-”

“That’s wonderful, really swell,” Simmons interjects, “sorry about that it’s just basic procedure I’m sure you understand.”  It comes out in a mangled, accented blur and Skye isn’t even entirely sure what Simmons just said, but she’s not going to push it.  Simmons takes a moment to scan over the rest of the sheet in front of her, tapping her pen against the clipboard.

“Do you have any tattoos or piercings?” Simmons asks, still staring at the clipboard.

“I mean, my ears are pierced,” Skye says, idly tracing her finger around her ear lobe.  “I just haven’t worn earrings in a while.  And-” Skye pauses, bringing her hand to her right side.  She runs her thumb along her ribs, as if she’s suddenly got an itch.  “I have a tattoo.  But it’s super cheesy and you can’t judge me about it because I thought it was cool at the time, okay?”  

 

“You’ve got a tattoo?” Fitz interjects, because of course this would be the exact moment he’s chosen to walk into the lab.  Skye sighs as Simmons waves Fitz over.  If she’s still embarrassed about earlier, she’s not showing it now.  And if getting a physical from Simmons was a little strange, then getting grilled by FitzSimmons is just weird.

“Um, guys?” Skye interjects, “you’re kind of in my personal space.”

“Can we see it?” Simmons asks, “we won’t laugh.”

“I might,” Fitz says, and Simmons elbows him in the arm.  “I mean-I won’t at all.  Not even a little!”

“Please?” Simmons asks.  They look like kittens.  How do people actually say no to them?  Skye starts to lift her shirt, and Simmons lets out an eep of surprise.  Fitz has actually thrown his hand over his eyes, but Skye can tell he’s peeking through his fingers.

“It’s at the top of my ribcage, guys,” Skye says.  “Relax.”  They let out a collective sigh of relief.  Skye resumes lifting up the side of her grey tee shirt, bunching it in her fingers as she holds down the other half with her free hand.  She has to slightly lift the band of her bra as well.  Her skin feels flat against her hand, and she can vaguely remember when the tattoo was still a series of raised bumps.

“Birds?” Simmons asks.  Well, not so much asks as notes.

“Um, yeah,” Skye says.  “I told you it was stupid.”

“It’s fitting!” Simmons says.

“Skye and birds,” Fitz notes, and Simmons rolls her eyes.

“That’s awful, Fitz,” she says.

“It makes sense, though!” Fitz protests.  “Right, Skye?”  Skye kind of wants to put her tee shirt down, but now Simmons is poking at her tattoo so she’s probably going to have to wait.

“I was like, eighteen,” Skye says, “they’re supposed to represent freedom?  Being uncaged?  I don’t know, it made sense at the time.” 

“I think they’re cute,” Simmons decides, finally pulling her finger back from Skye’s skin.  “I’d never get one myself, but it suits you.”

“You do seem like the tattooed type,” Fitz adds, as Skye pulls her shirt back down.  

“What does that mean, exactly?” Skye asks.  She hops off the table.  Simmons looks to the clipboard.

“We still have a couple more questions,” Simmons says, placing her hand against Skye’s arm. “You don’t mind, do you?”  Skye figures that Simmons has gotten her poking quota out for the day, so she shrugs.

“No?” Skye says, “but really, what does being the ‘tattooed type,’ mean?”

“Oh, you know,” Fitz says, “rebellious,”

“Anti-authority,” Simmons adds,

“Kind of hipster-y, if you think about it.”  Skye crosses her arms.

“I’m not a hipster,” Skye says.

“No, but that tattoo says otherwise,” Fitz replies, gesturing towards her ribs.  Skye opens her mouth to protest when Simmons asks,

“How much sleep do you get per night?”  Skye finds herself subconsciously scratching at her side.

“Um, like six hours?”

 

One of Fitzsimmons tells Coulson, or maybe both of them told him at the same time, but the end result is that Skye is just innocently pouring herself some orange juice when Coulson says, 

“You’re not going to be getting any more tattoos, are you?” Skye almost jumps in surprise.  It’s bad enough when May does the sneaking-up-behind-you thing, but Coulson should know better.  Or he does, and just does it anyway because he thinks it’s funny.  It’s probably that.

“Um,” Skye says, “I guess not?”  She hadn’t actually been planning to right until he said she couldn’t.  In so few words, that is.

“You sound unsure.” Coulson says, and when Skye turns to face him he looks entirely too amused.  

“I mean, maybe I’ll get like, words or something.”  She takes a sip of her orange juice, trying her best to give Coulson some sort of defiant glare.  He just returns it with the same bemused stare.

“Words or something,” Coulson repeats, “you’ve clearly put a lot of thought into this.”

“It’s my body,” Skye fires back, then winces.  She takes another sip to hide her embarrassment. Could she sound any more like the misunderstood teenager?  She’s 24, so she should really be working on not doing that.

“Never said it wasn’t,” Coulson says.  “But if you’re interested in tattoos, you should really ask Agent May.”  Skye tries not to choke on her juice.  She takes an unsteady gulp, then places her glass on the counter.

“Is this going to cost me one or more of my fingers?” Skye asks.  Coulson chuckles at that.

“I’m almost positive it won’t,” Coulson says.  He waves his hand in resignation.  “Ask her, don’t ask her, I’m just saying that she knows her stuff.” 

“By the way, was it Fitz or Simmons that told you about my tattoo?” Skye asks, ignoring Coulson’s little comment.  Ask Agent May about tattoos.  Yeah, sure.  That’s a sane thing to do.

“It was on your physical report,” Coulson replies, “why, did you think FitzSimmons was going around the bus, babbling about your tattoo?”

“Does that not sound like them?” Skye asks.  Coulson fondly shakes his head.

 

Skye doesn’t mean to blurt out,

“Hey, do you have a tattoo?” to Agent May, but it’s late and May is in the lounge drinking chamomile tea, and she seems mellow enough for the time being and Skye is really curious, okay?  May’s eyes flick upwards.  Skye is standing nervously in front of her, pulling on the hem of her shirt.  May gestures for her to sit down, and Skye quickly complies.

“Coulson told me to ask you about tattoos,” Skye says.  May cocks her head in a way that Skye takes to mean she should explain further.  Skye takes a deep breath.  “Because I have this really stupid bird tattoo on my side and I wasn’t planning to get another tattoo but then Coulson said I couldn’t and-” May holds a hand to silence her.

“He’s trying to get us to bond,” May states plainly.

“Over tattoos?” Skye asks, then bounces in her seat.  “So you do have one!”  May gives a resigned sigh.

“More than one,” May mutters.  Skye leans a little closer.  “You want to see them.”

“Please?” Skye asks, going so far as to bat her lashes.  May curls her upper lip, not enough to reveal teeth but Skye still knows well enough that she should move back.  May shrugs off her black jacket and turns her back to Skye, moving her hair off her back.

 

The first thing that strikes Skye is how elaborate May’s tattoo is.  If it’s even one tattoo.  It’s more like a series of tattoos, a story being told on skin. Skye can make out a snake and a lion and maybe a large bird.  There are other creatures, flowers and Chinese symbols that Skye does not understand. 

“Wow,” Skye breathes, moving her hand tentatively towards May’s spine.

“Don’t,” May warns over her shoulder, without needing to turn her head.  Skye quickly pulls her arm back.

“It’s so detailed,” Skye says, “did it hurt?”

“No,” May replies, and Skye’s not going to push it.  Sure, the tattoos look like they would hurt, but Skye’s not even sure if Melinda May has pain receptors.

“I just,” Skye says, “I got mine on a whim, and then I see how much thought went into this one and it makes me feel like a dumb teenager, I don’t know.”  She runs her thumb along her tattoo, through her shirt.  May shrugs her jacket back on, turning back to Skye.

“It wasn’t meant to turn into that,” May says, “it started as a few characters.  It grew into something more.”  Skye feels like there’s something sentimental in that, like maybe May is trying to share a moment with her.  May remains impassive, so maybe Skye’s just projecting.

“Do you think I should get another tattoo?” Skye asks, and May shrugs.

“I’d say probably not,” May replies, “but it’s your body.”

“That’s what I’m saying!” Skye exclaims, to which May rolls her eyes.

 

Skye’s out of clean workout shirts, which is entirely her own fault, but she doubts that Ward’s going to take “I’m out of clothes,” as an excuse.  He might offer to lend her one of his shirts, but that’s a whole different level of weird that she’d rather not get into.  And she’s got a pretty decent sports bra and a pair of sweats that are useable, and he’s worked out shirtless like, three times (she’s counted), so what’s the big deal?

 

For the most part, Ward is totally normal about training.  Maybe Skye had been hoping to ruffle his feathers, just a little, but it is just a sports bra, and he’s probably seen naked women before.  Like, twice, at least.  Probably.  Whatever, it’s a non issue until she’s going at the punch bag and he grabs her sides to reposition her posture and his thumb wanders under her bra, up against her ribs.  Where her tattoo is.  She shudders without meaning to.  Ward’s hands quickly go back to his sides.

“Sorry,” he mumbles, and Skye takes another swing at the bag.

“You could just ask about it,” Skye says, “I’ve discussed it with everyone but you.” 

“Even May?” Ward asks.  Skye snickers to herself.

“Even May.” She replies.  He circles back around, to hold the bag for her.  Skye tries to meet his eyes, only to find him staring at her side.

“Do you want me to move my bra?” she asks, “so you can actually see what it looks like?”  He blinks, hard, as if he has to remind himself to do so.

“You mean,” he says, “do I want you to take your bra off?  Because-” Skye steps back from the punching bag, protectively holding her arms against her chest.

“Buy me dinner first, Ward.  Geez.”  He looks down to the floor, still tightly gripping the punching bag.  “And no, I’m not just going to whip my top off.  What is with you people?”  That brings Ward’s attention back to Skye’s face.  She shrugs.  “Never mind.  It’s not that important.”

“Are you going to show me your tattoo?” Ward asks, not in a demanding tone but with a voice that sounds needy, somehow.

“Sure, sure, calm down,” Skye says, and Ward lets out an indignant noise.  She pulls her sports bra up, maybe a little higher than she did for Simmons and Fitz, enough that the underside of her boob can be seen.  She has to move her left hand over her right boob to keep from flashing Ward.

“It’s,” he offers, tentatively moving towards her, “It’s nice.”

“You can touch it,” Skye says, “but it just feels like skin.”  Ward doesn’t make good on the offer, not right away; he has to give himself time to lean in and look at it, and Skye wonders why he finds a stupid little tattoo so fascinating.  Or maybe he’s staring at the underside of her boob, though it’s not like she’s showing him her nipple or anything.  Skye takes a quick peek down, just to double check that.  She isn’t.  Good.

 

Ward’s fingers brush her ribs and she lets out a throughly indignant squeak of surprise.  Ward drops his hand back and she knows he’s confused, without even seeing his face.

“Sorry,” she says, “your hands are cold.”  The silence between them is starting to get weird, and Skye tugs her bra back down before he can reach out again.  Ward quickly moves upright, shoving his hands inside his pockets.

“Why birds?” he asks, and she takes a moment to nervously snap the strap of her sports bra.  It brings her back into focus.

“I still don’t know,” Skye says, almost snaps, before realizing that Ward has no clue how many times she’s been asked that today (and it was just once, actually, she has no idea why she’s being so defensive).  “This isn’t one of those things you’re going to judge me for, is it?”  Ward shifts at the statement, squaring his shoulders and looking straight down at her.  He’s not avoiding her eyes and it makes her want to run towards him or away from him and she can’t decide which one.

“Is that still what you think of me?” he asks.  It would sound wounded, coming from anyone else.  Skye stares back up at him, chin tilted upwards.  She doesn’t mean to look defiant.  He’s just really tall.

“I think you like to paint pictures of me in your head,” she says, “of who you think I am.”

“I can’t paint,” Ward says, and it’s so stupid and sudden that Skye lets out a long laugh without even meaning to.

“Of course you can’t,” she says.  He’s glaring at his shoes.  She lightly punches him in the arm.

“Wanna come with me to get my next tattoo?” she asks, and he scans up the slender frame of her body, pausing on her ribs and then up to her eyes.

“You’re getting another tattoo?” he asks.  He can’t tell from her smile if she’s serious or not.

“Maybe,” Skye offers, “if I knew what to get.  Maybe I can get something written under the birds, or whatever.”  Ward’s gaze goes back to the splotches of black ink partially hidden under the band of her spandex sports bra.

“What would it say?” he asks.  She doesn’t notice his hand move, just feels his fingertips at her side.  She doesn’t pull away.

“I dunno,” she says.  “This one hurt like hell, though.  Maybe you should get the next tattoo,”  She moves to pinch Ward’s hip, and he lets out an upset little noise. “You could get my name right,” she jabs at his upper hip with her index finger, “here.”

“I’m not getting your name tattooed on me!” he says, far too flustered by the idea of it, “I’m not get any tattoos.  Ever!”  Skye smirks at him.

“Yeah, okay, whatever,” Skye says, “but I’m going to start looking at fonts.” 

“Don’t,” Ward says, “Skye, don’t you dare make a thing out of this.”

“Oh come on,” Skye whines, “when do I ever make a ‘thing out of it?’” He raises his eyebrows.  “Okay fine.  No tattoo.  For now.”

“Ever,” he says.  She pokes hip again, for good measure.

“We’ll see,” she says.


End file.
